


What's Worth the Fuss

by thlayli_rah



Series: The Boys from Letterkenny [3]
Category: Letterkenny (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I have returned after a stupidly long hiatus, M/M, Wayne is Also Mad™, also I like Beating Up On My Boys so, also writing these fics fucks up my IRL speech patterns for at least two weeks afterward, and I have finally started writing the fuckin' threequel, but also Hurt/Hurt/More Hurt Oh Wait This Hurts Too Much, hi I'm Coryn and I've probably watched around 100 hours of Letterkenny to write these fics, if you need anything clarified please let me know, in this work: Darry is Mad™, slang heavy, so much fucking googling, the new season rebirthed me, this is just Part One in case y'all were wondering, three fistfights and one fight that's worse without fists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-31 23:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15129893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thlayli_rah/pseuds/thlayli_rah
Summary: When yer the type of prick who's gonna get in fights over any tiny fuckin' thing, sooner or later, you start to ask yerself what is actually worth fighting fer in this goddamn life





	1. AWOL

**Author's Note:**

> Please please leave comments! I love comments! I read all of them and they mean a lot; seriously, I wouldn't have written this third part to the series if it hadn't been for all the kind responses. We're a small fanbase but y'all are very warm, and that's what I appreciates about you

Once, almost like a joke, Riley hollers from ‘cross the bar, “How many fights you actually been in, huh bud?”

It’s a question Wayne can’t recall an actual answer to. He started fightin’— _really_ fightin’—when he was about twelve. So that’s over a decade of throwin’ hands and scrappin’ out back the bars and barns. If Wayne was in fer bettin’— which he ain’t, ‘cos he’s no de-gen with more cents than sense —he’d say that he’s been in more’n a hundred’r’so tilts since he was twelve. At the very least there’s been a brawl a month for the past twelve years.

Until Angie.

And if Wayne hadta be honest, which he always is, ‘cos a liar’s not the kinda prick he is— at least half of those fights have been ‘cos of Darry.

 

It’s ironic, in a way, seein’ as how Darry’s really not the type of fella to ever go lookin’ fer a fight, but his whole life, the fights found him. Somebody once told him he just had “one of those faces” and, _to be fair_ , Wayne understands what they mean. 

See, ‘cos Darry don’t look as tough as he is. He looks like you could knock him over in one or two good throws, or like he’d stumble off with his tail between his legs if you so much as raised a hand to him. But that’s not what he’s like. ‘Cos if Wayne was makin’ a team of fighters, Darry’d be his first pick. Not ‘cos he’s the hardest hitter, or the fastest mover, or anywhere near bein’ the toughest prick he knows (‘side from himself), but ‘cos Darry just doesn’t know when to quit.

But fer his whole life, people were pickin’ tilts with him. Guys’d give him a shove in bars, or dinks would give some lip outside the corner store, or kids in high school’d egg his locker— simply ‘cos they thought that they could get away with it, or if they didn’t, that Daryl wouldn’t be too much to handle. But they didn’t expect what they got.

Wayne hadn’t expected what he got.

He’s spent most of his life throwin’ hands on behalf of his best bud. And maybe that led him to mistakin’ Darry fer softer’n he ever was.

‘Cos one thing’s for sure, Wayne don’t expect that first hit to hurt as bad as it does.

*

It’s half-past who the fuck knows when by the time Wayne finds Darry, stumblin’ along the shoulder of the road, reeled outta his head. He didn’t show fer chores that mornin’ or the day before, he didn’t answer any of his goddamned phone messages, and ain’t a soul in town seen him fer pert near two whole days.

Wayne even checked in with the skids, though he’s pretty fuckin’ sure their souls dried up a long time ago.

 

Tryin’ to go AWOL in a small town is like tryin’ to hide a cow behind a fence post. At most, a fella can loiter a maximum of four places: the gravel pit, Modean’s 2, The Ukrainian Centre, or the Legion. If’n yer lucky, yer pals mighta erected some sorta makeshift shit sled shack somewhere in the woods, fer the winter— but Darry wasn’t there either.

He had been. ‘Cos the milk crates were turned over fer seats, an’ there were some empties littered around the interior like the place was a fuckin’ landfill, Christ. Bonnie McMurray hadn’t seen Darry ‘round the mart, an’ the fuckin’ space-cadet teenager who looked an’ talked like Porky Pig behind the counter at the LCBO (that’s pronounced “ _lick-bow_ ” in case you’s were wonderin’) didn’t have a clue who Wayne was lookin’ fer.

Now, Wayne waited one whole day ‘fore startin’ the manhunt. ‘Cos though you’d call him _efficient_ you couldn’t call him _eager_ , so, yeah. He fuckin’ put it off. Even though Katy asked why the fuck Darry wasn’t around to do the Deere, an’ that one empty fuckin’ lawn chair out fronta the produce stand felt sorta like somebody pulled off one of Wayne’s legs. But that’s just fuckin’ tellonovella melodrama so it ain’t worth talkin’ ‘bout.


	2. Semi

_three years earlier_

Once a year the Ag Hall held a semiformal mixer.

‘Now what the fuck’s the difference between a formal’s and a semiformals?’

‘Well, semiformal’s less formal than yer run of the mill formal, I’d reckon.’

‘You ever been to a real formal, then, Wayne?’

Wayne paused, his beer halfway to his lips. ‘Well d’you wanna know what, Dan, no, I don’t think I have.’

‘Huh. So’s maybe we don’t really knows what all’s encompasses a real formals then.’

‘I s’pect you’d have to be real formal fellas in order to have a real formals.’ Wayne pauses. ‘Like the PM.’

‘Oh sure, you knows the PM’s been to a real formals.’

They do a shot. Two taps. Wayne tilts his chair back.

‘Say, d’you wonder if there’s anythin’ else like… semi-so-on’s?’

Dan frowns. ‘How d’you means, then, Waynes?’

‘D’you think there’s semi-casuals, then? Like, say, paper plates and plastic forks, but if yer wearin’ crocs yer gonna get the boot.’

‘Should get the boot fer wearin’ crocs regardless.’

‘That’s fer fuckin’ sure, ain’t no fuckin’ excuse to wear crocs. Not even at a full-casuals event.’

Modean’s is pert near empty, since most folks are gettin’ half-cut on spiked punch like a bunch of fuckin’ highschoolers at prom. Wayne’n’Squirrelly Dan vetoed the evening this year, seein’ as how it’s become more’n’more junior as the years went on, an’ Wayne started feelin’ more’n’more like a geriatric creep whenever he attended.

 

Suddenly, the door slams open an’ in waltzes Katy in her long sequined dress, holdin’ the train of it up in one hand, her spiky high heels in the other.

‘Fuck, you gotta get out there. Some hockey player came up to Darry’n told him he was gonna wheel me.’

‘What’d Darry say?’ Wayne hadn’t moved from his spot at the bar.

‘“Buddy you couldn’t wheel a fuckin’ tire down a hill”. Now he’s gettin’ the shit kicked outta him.’

When Wayne reached the scene, Darry was bein’ pummelled by a liney and a d-man all at once, arms held behind his back. Darry spotted Wayne first and gave a toothy, bleary grin ‘fore gettin’ it knocked right offa his face. The liney holdin’ Dar up lost his smug look the second his eyes landed on Wayne, undoin’ the snaps on his cuffs.

‘Hey,’ Wayne snarled, and the d-man swung around, turnin’ right into Wayne’s right hook, his jaw connecting with Wayne’s fist; and fuck, if that wasn’t as satisfyin’ as takin’ a leak after a long car ride. ‘Whatcha think yer doin’, ya fuckin’ tit?’

The liney dropped Darry to deal with Wayne, but Darry’s up on his feet sooner’n he expects, and delivered a butcher’s upper cut, puttin’ the liney on his toes and sendin’ his eyes to the stars. He huffed, spat, an’ gave Wayne a nod.

‘What the hell’re _you_ doin’, Big Shoots?’

‘Waitin’ on ya to show. Took fuckin’ long enough.’

There’s nothin’ quite like that feelin’— the two of ‘em standin’ back to back, waitin’ fer the hockey dicks to stand up and square up. Nothin’ like that that feelin’, that realization that Darry didn’t have a doubt in his mind— not fer one fuckin’ second —that Wayne might not show.


	3. The Barn

_present day_

‘Darry,’ He calls. Darry stops walkin’ and turns, the whole process a lot like watchin’ Timbits on ice. When comprehension dawns that it’s Wayne, Darry gives him the finger and continues forward, stumblin’ a bit.

‘Will ya get in the fuckin’ truck you dink? Fer fuck’s sake’s.’

When Darry doesn’t stop, Wayne grunts and marches forward, grabbin’ Darry by the shoulder and swingin’ him around. He nearly gets an open-hand bitch-slap fer that one, but he ‘spected it, so he ducks outta the way at the last second.

‘Will ya figure yer shit out, fuck, causin’ a ruckus like yer a constipated donkey and somebody’s done stuck their knuckles up yer ass.’

Darry leans over and spits; Wayne steps away half a second late and the wet remains of Modean’s cheap-shit nachos splashes over his boots. Wayne sighs deeply.

‘Take a fuckin’ _hike_ , Daryl, I’m gonna _spit_. Sort yerself out.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Ain’t gon’ do such a thing, now get in the fuckin’ truck ‘fore I make ya.’

‘Yer gonna hafta.’ Darry hucks and spits into the ditch, and his hands flex at his sides. ‘I ain’t comin’ conscious.’

‘You call this conscious? Bud you’re pert near comatose. Yer so faded you couldn’t count to ten on yer fingers. Yer three sheets to the wind and an ass to the air. Get. In. The fuckin’. Truck.’

Darry crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head. ‘Make me, you prick.’

*

_three months earlier_

Darry pert near broke his hand on some doughnut’s face what thought it was a good fuckin’ idea to spray-paint _faggots_ on the front of the barn. They’re townies; hick dicks who didn’t get the fuckin’ message that it’s the goddamn age of enlightenment redux and about fuckin’ time fer folks to get over two consentin’ adults who just wanna give each other hummers in peace.

It was almost two in the mornin’ when Wayne heard the screen door slam and heard Darry’s voice hollerin’. He sat upright in bed and ‘fore his head even cleared he was in his boots, almost halfway down the stairs. Katy’s bedroom light came on just as Wayne hit the landin’, the dogs barkin’ in the barn, Darry callin’ somebody a “worm-dicked motherfucker”.

 

When Wayne emerged through the back door, he could make out Darry in his boxer-shorts’n teeshirt, shoeless, fightin’ fer all he was worth.

Wayne smelled the gas ‘fore he realized that was what the plan was, and by then he was already scrappin’. There’s only three of ‘em, so sure, him’n’Darry were _technically_ outnumbered, ‘cept the first guy Wayne hit crumpled up like a used cum tissue. 

Darry had the other guy by the shirt front, up against the barn, tossing boxer’s jabs into his face. An’ Darry don’t like beakin’ durin’ fights— neither does Wayne —and maybe you can’t exactly say that’s what it was. But one thing’s for sure, Darry had some shit to say.

 

‘You fuckin’—’ _hit_ ‘—pathetic greasy water-fed—’ _hit_ ‘ignorant shit-for-brain—’ _hit_ ‘animal fuckers—’ _hit_ ‘—ever come back here an’ I’ll fuckin’ break yer goddamn legs—’ _hit_ ‘—an’ throw ya in the goddamn lake.’ He pulled back for another hit, ‘fore Wayne’s arm stopped him.

‘Christ, Darry.’

The hick— a pulpy mess now revealed to have been Alexander —had been rendered unable to stand.

‘Look at this fuckin’ pansy.’ Darry spat in the dirt. Wayne inhaled the sharp smell of gasoline an’ looked down at the mess that was Alexander.

‘You were gonna set the barn on fire, weren’t’cha?’

Alexander had his face held together in his hands. He nodded once, weakly.

‘You,’ Wayne pointed at the other hick— Nick Daly, lesser brother of Pat Daly (all around great fuckin’ guy). ‘can ya fuckin’ walk?’

Nick nodded, once. Wayne grabbed him by the shirtfront and hauled him to his feet.

‘Take this wet sack of yer grandma’s diapers to the fuckin’ hospital.’

He bent and helped Alexander up. Darry’s hands twitched at his sides. He stopped them right as they were about to walk off.

‘Anybody asks you what happened—’

‘We ain’t gonna tell anyone—’ Nick said hurriedly. Darry took another step in.

‘Yeah, you fuckin’ well are. Tell ‘em you got yer asses handed to you, three-to-two, sneakin’ around in the middle of the fuckin’ night.’ He pointed at the barn. ‘By a couple’a _faggots_.’ He leaned into Alexander, who shrank back ever so slightly. ‘And let me tell ya one other thing. If it weren’t fer _him_ —’ He pointed at Wayne. ‘—you’d be callin’ fer a hearse, not an ambulance, ya got it?’

‘Now get the fuck off my property.’ Wayne said.


	4. Liquor'd

_present day_

It had been a night. Later’n the others, sure, ‘cos Wayne hadn’t had Darry’s help on the farm that day— but McMurray’d finished up early over at Pat Daly’s, and so the two of ‘em had come ‘round to give him a hand with the resta the barley. 

Afterwards, the lot of ‘em drove to Modean’s. When they walked in, Gail was wipin’ off a table; she shot Wayne a look.

‘Glad _you’re_ here,’ She said pointedly. ‘Look who’s been gettin’ polished fer the last four hours.’ She jerked her head back, and there sat Dar, far end of the bar, starin’ bleakly into a glass’a Gus’n’Bru like it had the map to the Holy fuckin’ Grail in it. Wayne had thought, distantly, that he’d be relieved when they finally got a fix on Darry. He was mildly surprised to realize that instead of relief, he’s more hacked off than a eunuch.

‘Thanks, Gailer,’ He said, tersely.

 

Katy made her way down to the end of the bar, hands on her hips, fit to spit fire.

‘Where the _fuck_ have you been?’

For a moment, it seemed like Darry wasn’t gonna answer.

‘Around,’ He finally managed.

‘Gettin’ crooked at mid-afternoon like an unemployed de-gen.’ Katy crossed her arms. Darry shrugged and reached to pour himself another drink. Wayne took the glass an’ slid it along the bar toward Gail.

‘Get up.’ Wayne kept his voice low, but it’s the tone his dad usedta use, the one you don’t get to argue with. ‘I’m takin’ ya home.’

‘An’ where’s that, exactly?’ Darry gave the bar a bitter grin. He reached for the bottle of Gus’n’Bru and Wayne picked it up. ‘Gimme that. Bought’n’paid fer, ain’t leavin’ ’til she’s empty.’

‘You can take the bottle if ya want.’ Gail offered.

Darry squinted up at Wayne; the bar gone cold and quiet, every patron’s eyes on the two of ‘em. Wayne tryin’ his damned best to not let that thought set up camp in the back of his head.

‘It’s time’t go, Dar.’ Wayne said evenly.

‘D’you know what Wayne said t’me the other day, Katy?’ Darry’s eyes passed over to her and she remained impassive.

‘I don’t think I give a shit.’

Before he could continue, Wayne balled the shoulder of Darry’s coveralls in a fist and hauled him up from the barstool.

‘What the fuck d’you think yer doin’.’ It wasn’t a question.

Darry stepped up close to him, his breath like the inside of a moonshiner’s still. ‘Y’know, for the toughest guy in Letterkenny, you’re one hell of a coward.’ His eyes fell over the bar crowd and he jerked himself loose from Wayne’s grip. ‘Nice’t know where yer loyalties lie.’

 

Wayne’d seen that look on Darry’s face before; when some city prick slapped Katy’s ass on the dance floor, or when the skids lit off firecrackers inside the barn to scare Stormy, or when Alexander called Darry’s Ma “Mrs. Easy Bake Oven”. It don’t happen very often, but when it does, it always means the same thing; his eyes go dark, flat, almost black— some way that no God Above ever intended fer Daryl’s freckly face and doe-eyes to ever look.

And then somebody gets hit. Hard.

And now, here they are, nose-to-nose, again. But there ain’t no romance in it.


	5. Opinionated Fucks

_three weeks earlier_

‘Would you rather give up sex’r’food?’

‘Sex.’ Squirrelly Dan answered instantly.

‘Speaks volumes ‘bout the content of a man’s character, that does.’ Wayne muttered.

‘Ain’t no sexual encounter I’ve ever had done make me feel the way I do after havin’ breakfast poutine, that’s fer goddamn’s sures.’

‘What the _hell_ is breakfast poutine?’ Katy asked.

‘It’s when you have french fries’n’cheese curds’n’gravy’n’bacon’n’eggs’n’sausages all at once, in one magnificent coronary hodgepodge.’ Darry answered smartly. ‘Though to be fair, Dan—’ 

‘ _To be faiiir_.’

‘ _Ah to be FAIR_ ,’

‘—I feel like them’s are two distinctly different styles of pleasure.’

‘Not to some.’

Wayne squinted at Dan through the side of his eye. ‘That’s fuckin’ debauchery Dan… figure it out.’

‘It was a goddamn personal question’s, don’t be actin’ like there’s such a wrong thing’s as an opinion’s.’

‘Okay, Dan, okay, hang on there a minute, Dan, okay— you sayin’ you don’t think a fella can have an incorrect opinion?’

‘I’d be hard pressed to agree with ya, Wayne.’

‘Alright Dan, okay, alright Dan. Tell me, then, Dan, if you saw a fella walkin’ down the street in a pair of pleated trusty tan khaki pants an’ an aquamarine infinity scarf with one of those trilby’s with a neon pink feather tacked on the brim, what’d you fuckin’ say to that fella?’

‘Well I’d liable question his decisions, sure—’

‘How ‘bout yer standin’ with a pal in the grocery store an’ he goes fer one of those bins of Becel vegan margarine instead’a the local butter from Pat Daly’s own goddamn saintly cows.’

‘Well that just ain’t supportin’s local businessessess.’

Katy piped up. ’How ‘bout somebody sees Ronny and Daxy walkin’ down the street holding hands and crossing sticks like they were Born and Made to Do and decides to holler somethin’ homophobic at ‘em?’

‘You’s guys all knows that’s a fight on sight.’

‘Okay Dan, okay, yeah Dan, how about Darry comes to ya the one day and says he’s got a new scooter, says it’s the tits.’

‘Sure as god’s got sandals ain’t nothin’ tits about a scooter.’ Dan was irate. He held his hand up to the next point. ‘I concedes. Some opinion’s are just flats-outs wrong.’

‘Sex.’ Darry said shortly, and their heads turned to him.

‘Well done there, Bette Midler, keeping the troops entertained I see.’ Katy slapped Wayne on the arm and he scowled.

‘Ain’t fuckin’ true.’

‘Sure fuckin’ is.’ Darry took a sip of his beer.

‘It ain’t neither an’ you know it. He’s just bent ‘cos I saw his porn searches and threatened to strike his genitals.’

‘That’s a far cry from stroke, Wayne, an’s the whole reason we’re in this pickle.’ Darry replied petulantly.

‘In this scenario, not eating wouldn’t kill you, right?’ Katy asked. Wayne cocked an eyebrow at her.

‘Katy…’

‘Hm. An interesting asterisk, Katy. No, it would not kill you— but you have to have sex as frequently as one would in order to survive, if they were eating food.’ Darry pointed at her with his beer. Katy shrugged.

‘Easy enough.’ 

‘Katy…’

‘Fuck, then I’d _have_ to give up sex.’ Dan muttered.‘Wayne, how ‘bout you’s?’

Wayne frowned. ‘Ain’t polite to talk about.’

‘Yer gettin’ bent.’ Darry remarked.

‘I’ll fuckin’ bend ya.’

‘Go have a dart.’

‘I’d have a dart.’

Darry stood from the bar. ‘Gotta go see a man ‘bout a dog.’

Wayne let Darry pass in front of him first, and just as he went, some citydiot loafin’ near the back of the bar croons, ‘Hey slugger, nice onesie.’

Darry stopped at their table, arms crossed over his chest.

‘Look bud, it’s better to have folks just assume yer a fuckin’ moron, ‘stead of openin’ yer mouth an’ provin’ it.’

‘Bet you piss outside as much as your fucking dog does.’

‘What’s it to ya?’ Darry snaps. Wayne’s up alongside him now.

‘You hicks are dumber than a pair of inbred donkeys.’

‘Tougher’n a set of winter tires, too, bud. Y’wanna test it?’

Wayne accepted a sip of Gus’n’Bru from Dan an’ smirked. ‘Go’n run upstairs and grab yer jammie jams, ‘cos I’m about to put ya to bed, bud.’

 

Gail usually don’t like ‘em startin’ scraps in the bar, but sometimes a fella’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. Wayne busted a beer bottle over the back of one prick’s head an’ watched Darry get his ass handed over. He stepped in after the gut-shot, and grabbed the dink by the back of the shirt. They grappled for a tick, ‘fore Wayne smashed his face into the bar and he dropped like a sack of lead.

Him’n’Darry stood there, pantin’ and achin’. Wayne fished for a dart in his shirt pocket and muttered.

‘Food.’

Darry gave him a look.

‘Don’t get all fuckin’ excited ‘bout it, alright?’

Darry grinned. ‘Somebody get this guy a fuckin’ Puppers.’


	6. Fightin'

_present day_

Darry’s whole body is shakin’ like he’s gone’n done the polar dip at the gravel pit, and his eyes haven’t stopped lookin’ like they did at the bar. They don’t talk about it. They never talk about it. In this town— in Letterkenny, and all other towns like it —you swallow every bad thing. You eat that shit like broken glass, and you let it bleed you from the inside out, ’til one day yer dead, and nobody’s ever gonna know that you’ve got a whole cathedral window’s worth of hate sittin’ in yer stomach.

It’s cold enough that they can see their breath hangin’ in the air. Fer a moment, it’s cold, and it’s quiet.

 

And then Darry’s fist connects.

 

The left side of Wayne’s face is on fire; he got good’n rattled. He bunches his shoulders fer a moment, ‘fore lookin’ back and burstin’ forward. It starts as grappling, Wayne takin’ Darry ‘round the middle, drivin’ a fist into Darry’s kidneys and hearin’ the resulting dry-heave. When he goes to pull back, to give breathin’ room he’d never allow in any other fight, Darry insteps, and drives an elbow into Wayne’s throat.

The two of ‘em stand, wheezing, each tryin’ to recover faster’n the other. Darry rights himself, awkwardly hunched to one side, and puts a hand on Wayne’s shoulder, ‘fore drivin’ his fist down against Wayne’s jaw. It’s a shit hit, a clip more’n anything, and Wayne grabs his arm. His brow’s pulsin’, his neck’s throbbin’, and he dents Darry twice in the face, his arm on the way back for a third, when Darry’s eyes come up at him.

And he thinks’a the look on his face.

 

Wayne shoves Darry back a couple steps, and he ends up on his knees. Wayne spits.

‘Do I hafta say it, or are you just gonna comply now, huh bud?’

Darry’s never looked more like he crawled right outta hell in his entire life. Wayne takes a step forward, lookin’ to help him up, but Darry stands on his own and takes a swing. It’s open, desperate, and about as on-target as a bird in a blizzard.

‘ _What the fuck d’you think yer doin’?_ ’ Wayne’s hollerin’ now. ‘Cut it out.’

Darry sounds like somebody’s kneelin’ on his neck. ‘You could end me in ten seconds, an’ yet I’m still standin’. Which one’f us is fuckin’ around here?’

‘Yer not even gonna fuckin’ remember this tomorrow morning.’

‘Probably not,’ Darry snorts and spits blood. ‘So what’s the fuss?’

Wayne’s hand clenches.

‘Hit me.’

‘Shut the fuck up, Dar.’

‘Hit me.’

Wayne’s not breathin’.

‘Hit me.’

Darry slaps his own cheek.

‘Hit me, Wayne.’

 

*

_three days earlier_

 

They’re post-Paddy’s Day, sittin’ out front the produce stand, squintin’ into the sun. Wayne’s got a split lip, and Darry’s nursin’ a shiner. Couple’a de-gens from Up Country came ‘round the ag hall and didn’t take too warmly to Wayne whirlin’ Darry ‘round the dance floor (mind you, neither does ‘bout half the town, still, but they know’s better by now than to start anythin’ over it) and so’s something of a donnybrook got started. 

Squirrelly Dan chaired some pasty acne-speckled fruitcake, but took a punch-bowl to the face and was currently recuperatin’ in the comfort of his own bed, where he— in his own immortal words — “don’t have to wear any goddamn underoos, Jesus Christ”.

 

Sometimes, it’s like the two of ‘em are livin’ in a bubble— Wayne’n’Darry, that is. ‘Cos folks who’ve got their balls in a bunch don’t make eye contact in the grocery store, an’ the rest of the town don’t find it too compellin’ of a tale anymore. It is what it is.

‘Cept then, folks from outta town roll through— at the bar, or to an Ag Hall Event, or wherever the fuck else —and Wayne’s forced to re-live the process that makes him just wanna deck whoever’s closest. Like when him’n Darry were sittin’ at the produce stand an’ Darry was massagin’ Wayne’s feet, and the greasiest fuckin’ rattail Wayne’d ever seen came up with some chick who could’a been his daughter, an’ thought he’d attempt to flex his wit by sayin’, “Buy your fruits from some fruits”. He left with a bundle of strawberries and two less teeth.

Or the time Darry’d actually, y’know, _tried_ to be gallant or whatever, an’ they had a Proper Fucking Dinner at that godawful Resto-Bar “Four Dancers”— but some bundle of tiny white college girls that Katy would’ve referred to as “Basic Bitches” lost their fuckin’ shite over the two of ‘em, fawnin’ and actin’ like they’d never seen— well, maybe they hadn’t. But Wayne wasn’t interested in bein’ somebody’s documentary on Queer Folks or whatever the hell him an’ Darry are. All he wanted was a beer and maybe a squeezer at the end of the night.

 

‘D’you wanna know what, I feel like I been in a fuckin’ pile-up, Dar, I’ll tell ya.’ Wayne’s got one arm thrown over his eyes, both his feet in the wet grass.

Darry’s reply can barely be called a groan. Wayne peeks a look, and Darry’s got his cold beer pressed ‘gainst the side of his face, his eyes squinched up real tight, like the sun’s the underside of Rat-Ass’ grundle, and it’s some shit you’d never wanna see, even if somebody was offerin’ a million dollars.

Wayne feels acid in his throat and burps; his whole stomach turns.

‘How come it don’t feel like we won that fight?’ Darry mumbles.

‘Mmmm,’ Wayne sighs. ‘We did, though.’

When Darry opens his eyes, finally, Wayne is leanin’ forward, elbows restin’ on his knees, squintin’ at Gus, snoozin’ in the grass. He doesn’t like holding hands— Wayne —or kissin’ in public. Never did, not even with Angie or Rosie. Darry can sneak it, once in a while, if there’s been enough liquid confidence passed ‘round, but most of the time he won’t push it.

 

Wayne’s shirt— the same one he was wearin’ last night —has a little bit of blood on the collar. It’s miss-buttoned, his collarbone showin’, those little freckles he’s got all over his body that nobody gets to see ‘less he goes swimmin’, since he’s always done up like showin’ any skin beyond his wrists would turn him into dust. He needs a shave, ‘cos his five o’clock shadow’s turnin’ a lot more into a full playoff beard— an’ Darry doesn’t like the bristles.

Wayne cracks his neck and slouches more completely in his lawn chair, his hands coming to dangle on either side of him like he’s been shot.

 

‘Say Wayne,’

‘Mm?’

‘Y’know I’ve been wonderin’ somethin’.’

There’s a long silence. Wayne doesn’t open his eyes. ‘Was that the whole novel, then, Big Shoots, or just the Cliff Notes?’

‘Well, y’know, Canada’s a real good country.’

‘Fuckin’ great country.’

‘It’s a damn good place to live.’

‘Y’know, I’d go so far as to say I love Canada, and you can quote me on that one.’

‘It is.’ Darry has a dart lit between his fingers, but he’s neglecting to smoke it. ‘An’ y’know, I been thinkin’ ‘bout all the things that make Canada such a great fuckin’ country.’

‘Like all-dressed chips.’

‘Ya.’

‘And Tim Horton’s.’

‘Sure.’

‘Nanaimo bars.’

‘Yep.’

‘Who wouldn’t wanna swaddle their newborn son in a Hudson Bay’s Blanket?’

‘Americans.’

‘And who can forget about the majestic Canada Gooses, fuck.’

‘Yeah, them too.’

Wayne lights a dart and takes a long drag from it. ‘Fuckin… swell country we got here, Big Shoots.’

 

‘Well, y’know Wayne, I was thinkin’, since we got this whole swell country an’ all, I was thinkin’ maybe you oughtta marry me.’

Wayne’s head swivels over so fast Darry’s surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash.

‘What ya— how in the— what the— well fuck off.’ Wayne’s on his feet and Darry’s squinting up at him.

‘Where’re ya goin’?’

Wayne turns a sharp, confused circle on the spot. ‘ _I don’t fuckin’ know._ ’

‘Cool yer jets, Shatner, ain’t need to be so fuckin’ dramatic.’

Wayne’s nostrils flare and he says nothing. Darry’s dart is starting to burn itself through.

‘Why’re you so fuckin’ bent?’

‘I ain’t.’

‘Sure. That’s why you’re actin’ like somethin’s crawled farther up yer ass than I’ve ever been.’

‘Fuck.’ Wayne starts to storm away, and Darry gets up after him.

‘Where the fuck d’you think yer goin’?’

‘S’work to be done ‘round here,’ Wayne attempts to open the door to the house but Darry’s hand forces it closed again.

‘Lookit, when I imagined ya turnin’ me down— well, I actually _didn’t_ , so—’

‘I ain’t turnin’ nothin’ down.’

‘So this is yer version of sayin’ yes? Gotta say, I know I’m not always the sharpest knife in the drawer but I feel like any fella could’ve missed that one.’

‘I ain’t turnin’ nothin’ down ‘cos this conversation ain’t happening.’ Wayne tries the door again, and once again Darry forces it closed. Wayne shoves past him and off the porch, ambling toward the barn.

 

‘What the fuck’re you saying?’

‘I’m sayin’ we’re not talkin’ ‘bout this Daryl, now drop it.’

‘Why the fuck not?’

Wayne finally wheels around on him and Darry jerks to a stop. ‘Cos I don’t fuckin’ wanna marry you, Dar.’

Darry’s dart finally reaches his fingertips and he drops it, burnt.

‘Oh.’

 

They’re standin’ about an arm’s length apart from one another, and Darry’s gaze is parked on his boots. The sun’s still hurtin’ his eyes, makin’ ‘em burn somethin’ awful.

‘How come?’ He manages.

‘Fuck. Darry, it ain’t— it isn’t— look here, I don’t want to—’ Wayne flounders. ‘It isn’t that I don’t wanna marry _you_ , I don’t wanna marry _anybody_.’

Darry sniffs, spits, and turns away, hands on his hips. ‘Ain’t fuckin’ true.’

‘Dar—’

‘Did you forget that we were best pals ‘fore all this? I know you were plannin’ on marryin’ Angie. So. Yeah.’ Darry’s eyes are set firmly on the barn. Stormy is sleeping in some hay. It’ll be all in her fur. They’ll have to comb her for an hour.

‘Ain’t the fuckin’ same and you know it.’ Wayne sounds mad, and somethin’ about that hacks Darry off even more. He wheels back over to face Wayne.

‘I don’t.’

‘Shockin’, really, shouldn’t expect you to put two-and-two together on yer own.’

There’s acid in Darry’s stomach. He spits some of it out.

‘Well I’ll tell you what answer I’ve got, an’ you can tell me if I’m right’r not, how ‘bout that? Looks to me like you don’t wanna marry me ‘cos you’re afraid of how the fuck it’s gonna feel to have to actually face the fact that you’re in love with somebody who’s got a bigger dick’n you do. You may actually have to look yerself in the mirror someday an’ admit that you’re queerios. And you care more about bein’ the Toughest Guy in Letterkenny than you do about bein’ my fuckin’ husband. That’s what I fuckin’ think. So tell me, Wayne, did I make four, or am I off by a few?’


	7. "Yet"

_ present day _

‘Hit me.’

‘Shut the fuck up, Dar.’

‘Hit me.’

Wayne’s not breathin’.

‘Hit me.’

Darry slaps his own cheek.

‘Hit me, Wayne.’

‘Darry—’

He pert near blows his throat out, screamin’ it there on the side of the road.

‘ _Hit me_ ,’

 

Wayne drives his fist into Darry’s chin and watches as he does a pirouette in work boots. He’s sprayed with spit an’ a little bit of blood, and Darry reels for a moment, on his hands’n’knees. Wayne’s clocked fellas like that before— fuck, Wayne’s _been_ clocked like that before. The whole world tilts bass-ackwards an’ you can’t tell up from down. His hands twitch at his sides, his face stony as Darry crouches, hacking in the dirt.

And then he’s up, suddenly, and Wayne’s gettin’ rugby tackled ‘round the middle. He gets a shot, two, three to the ribs, ‘fore he can wrangle Darry offa himself, and amazingly Darry manages to swing under Wayne’s haymaker and drive an upper cut clean into Wayne’s jaw. They’re grappling again, and Wayne’s seein’ stars, so he leans into Darry, grabs him ‘round the middle, an’ hauls him up. Darry hollers involuntarily when his feet come up off the ground, an’ Wayne twists him, tossin’ him into the dirt like a pro wrestler.

Darry’s crouched on the ground, Wayne’s pantin’, squintin’ through one eye.

And then, miraculously, Darry gets up. Again.

‘You don’t know when to fuckin’ _quit_ you _dumb fuckin’ hick_ ,’ Wayne snaps. And Darry’s laughin’.

‘Why’m I still standin’ Wayne? Huh? Why the fuck haven’t you put me out, yet?’

‘Quit yer beakin’.’ Wayne’s voice is like sandpaper.

Darry’s mouth is bleedin’ an’ he looks like he can barely see, but there’s that bitter grin on his face what reminds Wayne of the first time they ever kissed.

‘Ya either love me or ya don’t, Wayne, so what is it?’

 

For a minute, he thinks about beatin’ Darry’s head in. Just clockin’ him out, tossin’ him in the truck like a ragdoll. They’d never speak about any of this again.

 

And then Wayne’s got him by the collar and their mouths are crushed together, harsh and bitter and both a little bloody. Darry’s so startled that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do, and then his hands claw at the back of Wayne’s shirt, bunching it into knots and popping buttons at the front. When they finally pull back from one another, they’re still holding on, like they’re still grappling for purchase in a fight. Wayne’s backlit from the truck’s headlights, his face a shadow. For a moment, their breath mingles together, and it smells like rye and banana boat and barn and a little bit of sour puke.

‘Yer dick ain’t bigger’n mine.’

‘Whatever ya need to tell yerself, Super Chief.’

They’re quiet for a moment, and finally Wayne’s grip on Darry loosens.

‘I’m…’ The words are like chewing gravel. ‘scared.’

‘Called it.’

‘Fer fuck’s sakes Dar—’

‘Sorry,’ He mumbles, leaning his face into the crook of Wayne’s neck. ‘I’m pretty interplanetary. Should probably have this talk again. Later. Sober.’

There’s another pause. Wayne tilts his head.

‘Daryl?’

‘Mm?’

‘D’you have a fuckin’ stiffy?’

Darry squints up at him. ‘Thought it was kinda hot havin’ you beat me up.’

‘Sweet baby Jesus.’

‘Looks like we both learned somethin’ ‘bout ourselves today.’

‘Get in the fuckin’ truck, Darry.’

*

 

‘I don’t wanna marry you.’

There’s coffee on the table an’ Katy’s mercifully given ‘em some space. Darry’s in his underoos, still, an’ they’re both so covered in bruises it’s frankly difficult to see who got off worse. Darry’s head is restin’ on his arms, his rusty curls matted an’ greasy. He tries to speak, his throat too hoarse, clears it, an’ tries again.

‘How come?’ It’s different, this time, the way he asks.

‘Cos I don’t see the need.’ Wayne takes a sip of his coffee an’ sniffs. ‘Why do you wanna… y’know.’

‘Marry you?’

Wayne grunts. Darry cracks a painful grin.

‘Tax breaks, mostly.’

‘Ya fuckin’ tit.’

‘Why the fuck does anybody wanna marry anybody, Wayne?’

‘Yeah, well.’ There’s a longer, heavier pause this time. ‘Maybe I ain’t ready for that, yet, Big Shoots.’

‘“Yet,”’ Darry echoes.

Wayne cocks an eyebrow. ‘Don’t push it.’

They’re quiet, then, for another few moments. Wayne takes a short, sharp breath.

‘I do love ya, though, Dar.’ His face doesn’t change while he says it. He could’a been sayin’, “back to chorin’”.

Darry’s face breaks into that goofy simpleton smile.

‘Yeah?’

‘Mm.’

Darry leans in a little, and Wayne stands. ‘Well. Back to chorin’.’

He’s almost out the door when Darry hollers, ‘Yer a lot of work, Wayne.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand that's the end of part one! I'm pulling Part Two together as we speak-- though we're not actually speaking, I'm typing, and obviously if I'm typing /this/ then I can't be typing the fic-- but you know what I mean.
> 
> I've had this idea in my head for a while and to be honest I'm kind of dying to see Wayne and Darry duke it out on the actual show; gotta do every goddamn thing 'round here all myself
> 
> Part two should be out within the next week'r'so, cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> Hang in there for Part Two of this fic, coming as soon as I fucking can get it together, please bear with me


End file.
